


Don't Forget That You're Condemned To Me

by countessrivers



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: M/M, Obsession, sorry Selina, the moral of this story is that Jeremiah does not know how to share
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-10
Updated: 2018-09-10
Packaged: 2019-07-10 15:50:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15952553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/countessrivers/pseuds/countessrivers
Summary: “To be fair,” he cuts in. “The day’s not over yet.”They both start at the sound of his voice, jumping to their feet. Bruce freezes where he is, but Selina moves towards him, placing herself between him and Bruce, and Jeremiah has never hated anyone more. Not even his brother.This girl, who would misuse, yet still lay claim to what Jeremiah would kill for.Who would dare stand between Jeremiah and what was his.He hates her.Jeremiah's POV of the end of 4x21Written for the Batjokes Gotham Exchange.





	Don't Forget That You're Condemned To Me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RigorMorton](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RigorMorton/gifts).



> Here is my gift for the Batjokes Gotham Exchange.
> 
> I was writing for [Rigormorton](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RigorMorton/pseuds/RigorMorton), aka [rigormorton32](https://rigormorton32.tumblr.com/) and [gorleska](https://gorleska.tumblr.com/) on tumblr, and I picked the prompt asking for Jeremiah's POV during the scene where he shoots Selina, basically just acknowledging that he did it because he's a jealous hoe (I'm paraphrasing a little)
> 
> I was actually thrilled to get this prompt, as it is 100% up my alley, and for some reason I really enjoy writing from Jeremiah's POV (it might be because I too am a pale, queer, over dramatic nerd who is obsessed with Bruce Wayne and thinks he deserves the world).
> 
> Just a little note, I reference a few things in this fic that I also included in another recent fic, [Lacrymosa](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15861330). You don't need to have read that, it's more headcanony things I like to think happened off screen, or else I've extrapolated from canon, like Bruce occasionally talking to Jeremiah about his relationship with Selina, venting about how he doesn't always feel like he can trust her, his issues with her continued relationship with Barbara and Tabitha, and the time after Ra's resurrection when he came to the bunker, scared and upset, and they eventually kiss. Just little things, but this fic does mention them, as well as Jeremiah's take on them.
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy.

A member of the League drops Jeremiah at the edge of the woods that back onto the grounds of Wayne Manor. It’s a short walk to the main house itself, but this approach allows him to avoid the gate, and so, preserves the element of surprise.

Jeremiah hums to himself as he picks his way through the trees, the moon full, and high enough to provide sufficient natural light to see by. Knowing that his plans are back on track, the sting of betrayal and disappointment he had felt earlier has faded, replaced by a composed sort of anticipation. That he has been vindicated in his beliefs, even if he hadn’t yet been aware of the wider picture, and the cause he had unknowingly been serving, has provided him with a renewed sense of purpose.

And excitement, eagerness perhaps, at what he has the chance to do tonight.

He reaches the tree-line soon enough, and the manor looms out of the darkness before him. The night is quiet, almost as if it was waiting, holding its breath, disturbed only by the wind whistling through the trees and across the expanse of the gardens, and the movement of the night’s fauna.

There’s rustling high up in the branches to his right.

Birds or bats, Jeremiah figures. Whichever it is, they leave him alone, and so he pays them no mind.

From where he stands, Jeremiah can see no movement about the grounds, but if the house is empty, that suits him fine. Jeremiah was more than happy to wait; he had nothing but time. If anything, he would welcome the chance to explore the manor at his leisure. There was so much he hadn’t had a chance to see during his handful of previous visits.

Bruce’s bedroom, for example.

Ra’s, however, had seemed confident that both Bruce and Selina would be at the manor tonight, and Jeremiah simply assumes he must have had someone watching them. Ra’s had certainly known a suspicious amount about him and his own interactions with Bruce. Had known enough to somehow find him.

The man slyly dropping Bruce’s name may have gotten Jeremiah’s attention, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t been resentful of the intrusion, not to mention the wasting of a perfectly good clip of bullets.

His declarations of admiration for his mind, for his work, and for his ambitions, had done little to endear him to Jeremiah, who had felt a, admittedly, slightly hypocritical sense of violation over clearly having been followed, accompanied by a general sense of unease.

Ra’s al Ghul, as he had introduced himself as, had spun for Jeremiah a tale of immortality and war and resurrection that apparently spanned millennia. He had spoken of a league of assassins, working from the shadows, endeavouring to eradicate crime, to keep the world in balance, keep it turning. He had made mention of visions, of his ability to peer into the future to anticipate his enemies’ movements, and to foresee the course a person, or a city, might take.

While it had been about there that Jeremiah’s interest had begun to wane, magic not entirely in his wheelhouse, and nor did he want it to be, there had been something that had held his attention, something old and other in Ra’s eyes and the way he moved. An aura about the man that had set his teeth on edge, and a conviction that made him want to believe.

Because when Ra’s had spoken of Bruce, he had spoken with a fervour that Jeremiah had understood, that he had recognised, and for a brief moment he had considered the possibility that there might be something worthwhile to be gained from this after all.

His heir; that’s what Bruce was to Ra’s. The one he had been hunting down for centuries. The one who was to take up the Demon’s Head and restore balance to Gotham, to the world. And it had been as if someone had finally put into words everything that Jeremiah had been thinking and feeling since the first moment he had laid eyes on Bruce. Like that moment when you finally find the word that’s been on the tip of your tongue and everything just clicks into place. Ra’s al Ghul had uttered the phrase “dark knight” and Jeremiah had found a new awareness.

Ra’s had told him about the Court of Owls, and their role in Gotham’s history, its evolution. He had mentioned names and places that had been familiar to Jeremiah, if only through his research into Bruce and his brother and the city’s other major players. He had spoken of the League’s purpose in Gotham, about Bruce’s kidnapping and conditioning (and hadn’t that been an interesting piece of information) and the Alice Tetch virus and its purpose.

He told him how he died.

He explained to Jeremiah what had happened in the caverns underneath Blackgate prison only months earlier. Explained how he had drawn a grieving, angry Bruce in, taking him down below and threatening him, promising him. Promising to allow Bruce to be happy, to build a life for himself, before returning one day, far in the future, and slaughtering his family as he watched.

He explained how Bruce, tears in his eyes, had spun around and driven a knife into Ra’s chest.

During their time together, over their many meetings and conversations, Bruce had told him enough. He may not have told Jeremiah everything, may have danced around certain details, but standing before Ra’s in that abandoned theatre, Jeremiah had finally understood what’d had Bruce so rattled that night he came to the bunker, desperate for reassurance, for comfort. Understood what had driven him to months of drinking and partying and other guilt-induced poor choices. It hadn’t just been that Bruce had seen a friend die and had blamed himself. It hadn’t been that he was rebelling, chafing under rules and control and expectations. No.

Bruce had killed. Bruce had blood on his hands and the act had rocked him to his core.

Changed him.

Bruce had been scared of Ra’s. Is still scared of him.

“Bruce is rigid in his moral code, stubborn, and liable to break if he cannot be taught to bend.” Ra’s had said. “But he has the potential to be a far greater leader, a far greater weapon, that he could ever truly conceive of. He just needs to be taught, and for that, all he needs is a push.”

Ra’s had been beside him, an arm around his shoulder pulling him close and all but pulling him around the room. He had been cold, almost unnaturally so, the chill from his hand seeping through Jeremiah’s shirt.

“And that is how I did it. Going after Bruce directly does nothing. He can take the torture, the suffering, the pain. Can take it easily, _beautifully_ even, because he’s strong, because deep down a part of him thinks he deserves it. The only way to really hurt him, to really control him, is to attack the ones he loves.”

Jeremiah had already known that, of course. It was why he’d had Pennyworth kidnapped in the first place. Aside from the role he would play with Crane and his toxin, a direct threat to the man’s life had been a sure-fire way to ensure that Bruce would leave the GCPD out of it.

He and Ra’s had clearly been on the same page over how best to handle Bruce, and Jeremiah had gradually grown more receptive to what the man had been offering. The thing that had tripped him up, however, had been the idea of ‘children’

Or more specifically, ‘Bruce’s children’.

_“I will slaughter your wife and children before your very eyes.”_

The issue had not so much been the idea that Ra’s could, and would, happily slit a child’s throat in-front of their presumably horrified father, Jeremiah had been made more than aware of his capabilities in that regard, but rather, their existence at all.

The possibility of children with Bruce’s eyes, his nose, his stubborn chin. A child he could theoretically look at and see some part of Bruce.

Or maybe adopted. An orphan adopting orphans, that had sounded about right.

But for all that Jeremiah could clearly see such a future, could imagine an older, grown Bruce with half a dozen children circling around him, something about it hadn’t felt right, displeasing and off-putting in a way he couldn’t really put into words. Jeremiah had never really been a fan of children, even as a child, and recent developments certainly hadn’t changed that.

Additionally, the very idea of sharing Bruce’s attention, his affection, with anyone, was exceedingly abhorrent, which is why the concept of children hadn’t bothered Jeremiah nearly  
as much as the other part of the threat had.

_Wife._

He hadn’t been able to help but wonder how much of Ra’s threat towards Bruce had been based on some sort of foreknowledge. How much of his summation of Bruce’s future had been grounded less in an understanding of his character, and more on his supposed premonitions.

And as he had watched Ra’s watch him, he had wondered what else the man might have seen. If somewhere, in Bruce’s future, in Gotham’s future, Ra’s might have seen _him_. Jeremiah might not necessarily be a believer, but the thought had stuck with him nonetheless.

And it was why it had been him that had brought up the idea of killing Selina Kyle first.

As Jeremiah circles around the manor, he is careful to keep out of sight. He makes note of any movement, and he spots lights through the windows of what he knows to be the kitchen, the entry hall, and the main study. He would put his money on Bruce, and Selina, being in the latter.

He avoids the kitchen door, as well as the main entrance, and makes his way up the paved steps that lead towards the back of the house. He crouches down, pulling the lock-pick from his pocket and starting on the door.

As he slides the pins into the lock, Jeremiah is suddenly struck by the memory of Bruce complaining to him about needing better security because people were constantly breaking into the manor in order to kill him. He bites down on his tongue to hold back a laugh, because, well, here Jeremiah is.

But in Bruce’s defence, he’s been busy.

And in Jeremiah’s defence, he’s not here to kill _Bruce_.

Jeremiah can’t say he ever particularly liked Selina Kyle, despite having never actually met her in person. Bruce had spoken of her often, clearly thinking himself in love, and wanting to share that feeling with someone, but for all the insight such conversations provided into Bruce’s life and state of mind, Jeremiah had never enjoyed them. He’s aware enough of himself now to admit that he had been envious.

Envious of the way Bruce thought about her, spoke about her, looked at her. Envious of the ways in which she knew him, knew parts of him that Jeremiah didn’t. Envious of the way that Bruce gave her chance after chance, regardless of the way it, and she, cut him each time.

There had also been anger on Bruce’s behalf.

Anger at the way she would acknowledge Bruce’s feelings when it was convenient for her and reject them when it wasn’t. Anger at the way she would push him away, and then get mad when Bruce took her at her word, stepping back to protect himself. Anger that Bruce couldn’t see exactly what she was doing to him.

That mind, that loyalty and that love were wasted on Selina Kyle.

From time to time Bruce had also mentioned her so-called allies, his voice heavy with confusion and betrayal, stemming from the hurt he felt at not just her fickleness and her own criminal activities, but at her repeated defence of two unrepentant murderers who had, more than once, hurt him and those he cared about.

Jeremiah used to think of them as criminals; petty and unworthy, and having now met Barbara Kean and Tabitha Galavan in person, he can’t say his opinion has changed all that much.

Not to mention Cobblepot.

Gotham on a knife’s edge, about to go up in flames, its citizen’s fleeing and its government floundering, and all they could think about was money.

Shallow, short-sighted fools.

Jeremiah is also, frankly, insulted by the complete and utter lack of subtlety on their part. When one decides to openly discuss their intentions to betray the person they are attempting to blackmail, he would think it would be better not to do so extremely loudly and obviously, while still in the same room.

And while Jeremiah had never had any intention of honouring the deal in its entirety or letting them walk out of there alive afterwards, he would have appreciated a little more effort and intelligence on their part.

Shame the explosion hadn’t taken them all out then and there.

Not that it really mattered. They would all be dead or gone soon enough anyway.

Ideally.

Ra’s hadn’t gone into much detail, but Jeremiah has gotten the impression that, somehow, Barbara Kean had gotten herself involved with the League. Ever since her association with Theo Galavan, and Jerome’s accompanying killing spree and subsequent murder, he has kept an eye on her, and he assumes that she came into contact with Ra’s at some point during her mysterious and unexplained absence from public view a year or so ago. He certainly recalls her and Galavan being accompanied to their little unscheduled gathering by a number of somewhat silently intimidating women armed with swords.

Ra’s hadn’t come across as eager to take care of her, or to take back control of her followers. If anything, he gets the sense that it is quite the opposite, for all that Ra’s professes Bruce to be his true heir, but it’s not something Jeremiah’s prepared to fight him on just yet, despite his intention to keep a wary eye on the situation to ensure it doesn’t have unintended consequences.

And Jeremiah supposes that he does owe something to all three of them. If Barbara Kean hadn’t taken control of the League’s breakaway faction, if she hadn’t turned on Tabitha, if Tabitha, in turn, hadn’t lured Bruce in to unwillingly help resurrect Ra’s, then Jeremiah wouldn’t be here right now.

And Bruce would not have come to him that night, shaken and betrayed, spilling out his fears and his resentments

Bruce would not have kissed him.

Jeremiah thinks about that kiss a lot. About the way Bruce had pressed up against him, the way he had clutched at him, moaning when Jeremiah had pulled their hips together. He thinks about the way Bruce had tasted, how warm he had been, and how breathless and inviting he had looked once Jeremiah had forced himself to pull away.

He thinks about it a lot.

It’s the only kiss they’ve shared, and despite what Jeremiah believes they both really want, it’s as far as they have gone. There have been moments, however, when he’s thought they might have gone further. Or at least, picked up where they left off.

Like in the bunker, only days ago, when Bruce had put his hand on Jerome’s journal, their fingers all but touching, and told him that it was time to re-join the world. Jeremiah had thought about it then, had almost leaned in and closed the distance between them, but Bruce had shifted away, face still so earnest, and the moment had been gone.

He’s not sure if it would have changed anything that had happened that day. The perceived sting of betrayal may have hurt Bruce more, but that was inevitable. Bruce hadn’t been ready to see what Jeremiah was trying to show him, too fixated on the necessary deception to see that Jeremiah, even as he lied, had told nothing but the truth.

Jeremiah had absolutely meant what he said in the crypt, in the graveyard. Bruce is everything he could have ever wanted, and he knows, unquestionably and indisputably, that they’re meant for each other, that together, they’re going to change Gotham forever.

Which is why, regardless of the fantastical tales of visions and destiny and immortality, and the fact that, thanks to Barbara Kean, he may possibly be compromise to a dangerous extent, Ra’s al Ghul has his uses. He had men and firepower and was going to give Jeremiah back his bombs, give him the city.

Most importantly, he was going to give him Bruce.

When the door finally opens with a quiet click, Jeremiah rises to his feet, checking the patio behind him as he slips his tools back into the pocket of his suit. He eases the door open, listening carefully for any noise from inside, before stepping into what turns out to be a laundry room. The lights are off, as they are in most of the manor, and he doesn’t dare risk switching them on, but there’s still enough moonlight shining through the window for him to find the door to the hallway.

Outside is just as dark and quiet as the laundry room, but Jeremiah thinks he recognises the particular painting of a ship hanging on the wall to his left, and the blue and white vase sitting on a pedestal in front of the window at the end of the hallway, enough that he has a rough idea of where he is, and more importantly, how to get to get to the study.

He moves through the corridors silently, anticipation buzzing excitedly under his skin, following the layout memorised in his head towards the other side of the house. He reaches the entrance foyer soon enough, but pauses, slipping back against the wall, further into the shadows beside the stairs up to the second floor as he hears footsteps moving towards him.

It’s Pennyworth, and in the dim lighting of the hall he can see the bruising along the side of his face, the stiff way in which he holds himself, hinting at an injury to his side. Ribs perhaps.

Jeremiah entertains the idea of sliding up behind the man and wrapping an arm around his neck, choking him into unconsciousness. Or taking the garrotte in his pocket and wrapping that around his neck instead.

He dismisses the thought quickly enough, watching the man as he moves past. As satisfying as it might be in the moment, now wasn’t the time. Pennyworth would be dealt with eventually, just not now.

Having said that, if his men had just killed the butler when he told them to, it would have saved Jeremiah a lot of trouble.

If.

 _If_ a lot of things.

 _If_ Crane and his men had been able to subdue one eighteen-year-old girl. _If_ he had just taken Bruce with him when he left the cemetery. _If_ Ecco had locked the door behind her when she escaped the bunker.

Jeremiah finds himself wondering if, once this is done, they’ll send Gordon to come and collect him. That was another loose end that Jeremiah needed to tie up, sooner rather than later. Ideally that was something else Ra’s would assist with. He didn’t care how Gordon died, only that he did.

Pennyworth’s footsteps eventually move out of hearing range, and Jeremiah releases the breath he had been holding, taking the chance to duck across the foyer and into the hallway beyond.

The doors to the study are open when he comes around the corner. He can hear quiet voices from within, his hunch proven right when he easily recognises them as Bruce, and presumably, Selina. He can picture them, sitting close, leaning into each other, touching, and it makes his lip curl. He picks up the thread of their conversation easily, but the fact that he is clearly the topic of discussion does little to dispel the bitterness.

“Why do you think he’s so obsessed with you?” he hears Selina ask.

Jeremiah would laugh if it wasn’t so infuriating. This girl, this thief, this petty criminal, pretending as if she understood. Throwing around words like ‘obsessed’ as if she could ever understand either of them. As if she knew Jeremiah. As if she knew Bruce.

She doesn’t, no one does.

No one knows Bruce Wayne like him.

He pulls the gun out of his pocket, checking it over, before approaching the door. He keeps a wary ear out for the butler, hoping that he has enough time to do what he came here to do. The man will come running soon enough, but just not yet.

“Maybe he sensed that,” he hears Bruce say. “Maybe he wanted to bring it out.”

‘Oh Bruce,’ Jeremiah thinks. ‘You really have no idea.’

Bruce has the potential to be great. More than great.

Jeremiah can see it. He saw it the very first moment he laid eyes on Bruce. Ra’s sees it too, and has apparently known it and been working towards it for centuries now.

It’s frankly criminal, in Jeremiah’s opinion, exactly how little Bruce, for all his apparent ego, and the way he unflinchingly shoulders responsibility for the entire city, actually values his own worth. Perhaps it’s the result of his insistence on surrounding himself with people who do nothing but cage him, hold him back, limit him.

It’s fortunate then, the Jeremiah is here to help him. To build him up and make him anew. To help him reach his potential, so that, together, they can rebuild Gotham.

Fortunate then, that they found each other.

(Despite all his faults, and the blood and wounds and hurts and now death between them, Jeremiah can admit, if only privately, to a sense of gratitude towards Jerome, for giving him this.)

(Jerome had seen it too. Even if he hadn’t understood what it was, even if he hadn’t understood what to do with it, he knew, like Jeremiah, like Ra’s, like all the others, exactly how special Bruce was.)

Jeremiah slips into the room just as Selina replies.

“Well, you proved him wrong.”

He rolls his eyes, then frowns briefly when he notices the way the two of them are curled up around each other. They way her legs are in his lap.

“To be fair,” he cuts in. “The day’s not over yet.”

They both start at the sound of his voice, jumping to their feet. Bruce freezes where he is, but Selina moves towards him, placing herself between him and Bruce, and Jeremiah has never hated anyone more. Not even his brother.

This girl, who would misuse, yet still lay claim to what Jeremiah would kill for.  
Who would dare stand between Jeremiah and what was his.

He hates her.

‘He’s not yours,’ he thinks as he subtly moves the gun in line with her stomach, her spine, finger twitching on the trigger. ‘You don’t deserve him.’

He doesn’t bother looking at her though, doesn’t waste his attention on her, and instead looks at Bruce. Drinks in the horror and the fear and the betrayal that had been slowly building on his face from the moment Jeremiah had stepped into the room.

The shot, when he pulls the trigger, is loud, almost deafening, as is the crash of the bowl shattering under Selina as she collapses back onto the table.

They’re beautiful sounds, but Bruce doesn’t appear to be appreciating them, frozen as he is, turning in almost slow motion to where Selina has fallen. He doesn’t react to the gun still in Jeremiah’s hand, nor to the clatter as he tosses it aside. His mouth is opening and closing, shaping out words with no sounds.

Jeremiah hears Selina breathe out Bruce’s name, her voice small and broken and filled with pain. That snaps Bruce out of his stupor, and he stumbles towards her, choking out a litany of desperate “no’s” and “please’s”.

Jeremiah hears Pennyworth coming, the thud of feet in the hall outside, and maybe he is quicker to react than expected, or at least closer to the room than Jeremiah had guessed, but ultimately, he’s still not quick enough to do anything.

Besides slam into Jeremiah hard enough to knock him to the ground.

His head hits the floor when he lands, and it dazes him long enough for Pennyworth to sit up on his knees, take hold of Jeremiah’s collar, and strike him across the face.

As the pain radiates out from his already bruising cheek and the fist comes down again, it occurs to Jeremiah that he maybe should have kept hold of the gun, at least to shoot Pennyworth in the leg with. He dismisses the idea quickly enough. That wasn’t the plan. That wasn’t the _point_.

Pennyworth lets go of his collar, allowing him to collapse back onto the floor, but he doesn’t let up, following him down to hit him again and again and again. If the man finds it at all odd that Jeremiah isn’t fighting back, isn’t even attempting to shield himself, then he isn’t letting it slow him down.

A loud crunch, and Jeremiah feels his nose break.

‘Maybe just a bullet to the shin,’ he thinks. ‘Or the shoulder.’

Somewhere relatively non-lethal, but still painful. Jeremiah is fairly attached to his face and would like to keep it as intact as possible.

He lets his head flop to the side, blood dripping down his face, into his mouth, over his tongue, and looks to Bruce.

He can’t see Bruce’s face from where he’s lying, only his back, his hands as he grasps at Selina’s shoulder, but he can imagine the sight well enough.

Grief, anguish, and pain all look good on him. Exquisite even.

Jeremiah wonders if Bruce is thinking about his parents. If, as he franticly, desperately tries to keep Selina awake, tries to keep her blood from spilling out all over the floor, he’s twelve years old again, back in that alley, hands and knees stained in blood as he screams and begs for his parents to wake up.

Or if he’s trapped here, now. Stuck in the present and unable to escape the sight of his girlfriend bleeding out in front of him

At this angle Jeremiah can feel the blood from his nose and his mouth slipping back down his throat, and he distantly thinks that he should probably be worried about his ability to breathe, particularly if Pennyworth decides he’s bored punching his face in and switches to kicking him in the ribs. Or strangling him.

Jeremiah doesn’t worry though, and if anything, the pain sharpens his focus, even if he can feel his left eye starting to swell.

Everything narrows down to Bruce.

Bruce, and the blood on his shaking hands. Bruce, and the roar of Jeremiah’s heartbeat in his ears. Bruce, and the taste of iron in his mouth.

Bruce throws the occasional look back at him, but they’re quick, fleeting, and almost unseeing. More like instinctual attempts to stay aware of the rest of the room, perhaps unconsciously aiming to make up for his earlier lack of situational awareness. For the most part though, his attention is on Selina, clearly unwilling to take his eyes off her, presumably worried that she’ll disappear if he looks away long enough.

He’s right, in a way.

Jeremiah certainly isn’t intending on going anywhere anytime soon, so he can begrudgingly let them have this. He’ll have Bruce’s undivided attention soon enough.

As the world fades in and out of focus, Jeremiah wonders if ambulance he can hear Bruce calling will make it in time, or if she’ll bleed out all over Bruce before it can. He’s not entirely sure if he wants it to or not. Ra’s hadn’t had a preference either way, insisting only that the blow against Bruce be struck. The particulars had been left up to Jeremiah.

Selina Kyle dead means she’s done, gone, no longer in the picture. Unable to see or touch or speak to Bruce ever again.

For Jeremiah, that’s certainly appealing, but it might also backfire, because a dead Selina Kyle was a victim, a martyr. Someone whom Bruce could mourn, hold up, and idolise in favour of ignoring all her faults. All the ways she was wrong for him. All the ways she had hurt him.

But Selina Kyle alive, in pain, suffering, and possibly even paralysed if he had aimed right, might just drive a wedge between the two of them. Her stubbornness and vicious edge and wounded pride combined with Bruce’s guilt might do half of Jeremiah’s work for him. Not that she wouldn’t still be a threat. She’s smart and resourceful and underhanded, if not quite as pretty as Jeremiah is, and he has no intention of underestimating her. She strikes him as the vengeful type.

But even if she lives, Jeremiah knows Bruce will still choose him. When the city is inevitably evacuated, she’ll be sent away, but Bruce will stay. Even if they don’t manage to escape with him from the GCPD, even if he slips through their fingers afterwards, even if the bombs go off and half the city is blown to hell, Bruce will stay.

And then Bruce will be his. Not Selina Kyle’s, not Alfred Pennyworth’s, not Jim Gordon’s, not even Ra’s al Ghul’s. Bruce will be his, exactly the way it should be.

So Jeremiah’s not too worried, if she lives, he always has the option of trying again later. Selina Kyle’s bound to run out of lives eventually.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed this Rigormorton, as well as anyone else who read it. It was a lot of fun to write, and I hope I did your prompt justice.
> 
> I'm also over [here](countessrivers.tumblr.com) on tumblr, where I yell and/or cry about Gotham a lot, if anyone is interested.


End file.
